Part Two

I: Sherlock Holmes

Mrs. Mary Watson was quite an interesting character, because she was an individual who was viewed very differently in the eyes of two very close partners.

Dr. John Watson – the beloved associate of the great Sherlock Holmes, was married to the lady, and he lived a peaceful, yet usually dull, life with her.

However, Sherlock Holmes hated Mary Watson with all of his heart, because she had taken away the one thing that mattered most to him.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would always mesh perfectly, always moving together with flawless steps on every case. But since the arrival of Mary Morstan, since the marriage of John to Mary, and since the departure of John from 221B Baker St., things had changed. Changed too significantly for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

He sat alone, every day, in the familiar rooms, taking on various cases to keep his brain busy. Without his Watson, the cases he took were never recorded, but Holmes had been told several times by his friend before he left to try documenting the adventures himself, although he had never taken up the responsibility until now.

One ordinary, uneventful day, Sherlock Holmes was sifting through the notes that he had taken during his previous cases without Watson, and moving them about and putting them in messy piles. It was late-afternoon, and the fading sun was shining through the grimy windows that lined the room.

Holmes sighed. He couldn't pick a certain case. How was he to record it as Watson had? Watson had illuminated the detective's talents through his poetic writings and made the stories interesting and pleasing to read. Holmes was focused on facts, and he wasn't sure if he could make the report interesting enough to read. He wanted to, however, because his cases were his career - they were the most important thing in his life.

Well, second-most important.

Holmes gave another small sigh. It had been months. He still missed his dear Watson.

Grumbling, Holmes pushed the papers aside with a swipe of his hand, sending some of them fluttering through the air. He retreated to Watson's old armchair (he hadn't sat in his own in ages) and picked up his violin, playing a few sullen notes out of pure frustration.

He wanted his Watson back so badly. Why did he have to marry that horrid Mary? She was dull. Plain. He hated that woman.

Shaking his head, Sherlock Holmes threw down his violin and paced around the room, rubbing his distraught face in exasperation.

Presently, the patient landlady, Mrs. Hudson, came around and inquired to Holmes' irritated footsteps, but he brushed her aside like an annoying speck of dust.

Eventually, Holmes collapsed into Watson's armchair and fell asleep, his mind thoroughly exhausted, his violin and bow discarded off to one side.

I yawned. It was mid-day, and the sun was shining with a cheery glow through my sitting-room window. It was a lovely day outside, but I was sitting in my parlor, at my house, with my wife, doing nothing. Despite everything I had, I was bored.

Though my work had been busy lately, nothing particularly interesting had happened at home. Mary sat quietly reading a book on the couch opposite to me, and the ticking of the clock and the steady flipping of her pages were the only noises in the room.

These past few months we had lived together had been very... normal, and we went out every once in a while to have a normal dinner, or visit the theater and act like normal people, or enjoy life as a normal couple.

But normal was boring.

Yawning again, I stood and stretched my arms. Mary looked curiously at me, a small smile on her pretty face. "Going somewhere, John?"

"Uhhm… yes, actually, I, um… think I'll go visit Holmes."

"Good. You haven't seen him for a while."

"Yes. Who knows how he's been getting on without me. He's probably pretended to hang himself again."

Mary chuckled, a light, tinkling laugh. "Well, have a nice time. Be home for dinner."

She rose and gave me a quick kiss as I threw on my jacket and grabbed my walking-stick. Smiling, I said, "Good-bye, dear."

Sherlock Holmes slowly opened his eyes.

He had no idea how long he'd been sleeping, but it's not like he really cared. No cases, no Watson, nothing of entertainment. Damn it, even Gladstone would provide entertainment as an experiment. But he, too, had left with Watson.

Groaning, Holmes sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Glancing around the room for something to do, he spotted the cocaine-bottle upon the mantle. He gave it a long, hard glare, and then Holmes suddenly jumped up and took it in his hand, only to find that the little glass bottle was empty.

He threw the bottle to the floor in a sudden flash of anger, where it shattered and sent tiny pieces of glass flying across the carpet, and they reflected the sunlight shining through the only window with the drapes not quite drawn.

The irritated detective glared at the pretty specks of light for a second before flying to the window and swiping the drapes shut with a snarl of annoyance. The room grew dark and shadowy.

Holmes sat down in his desk chair and sighed.

He was going insane.

Why did he have to be out of cocaine? Why now, of all times?

Looking around once again for something to do, Holmes saw the papers scattered on the floor from earlier that day.

Chronicle a case. It was something, at least. Something to do.

Besides, Watson had wanted him to do it.

Leaning down and ruffling the papers together in a messy pile, Holmes began to search through them for an interesting case, but with little enthusiasm.

He picked up the notes for one of his more recent cases and set them aside for a moment while he swept the rest of the papers onto the floor.

Holmes lit a small candle to provide just a little light around his desk. He then took a few blank sheets of foolscap paper and a bottle of ink, setting them up accordingly, and began to write.

"THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER"

Holmes paused. He wished Watson were here to see that he had listened to him and really had started to record one of his cases.

Sighing, he continued writing for about ten minutes, not really thinking about what he was putting on paper, really, but rather just… writing. And Holmes wrote what first came into his head and in the order it came in.

And then, he paused again, and thought for just a moment before slowly scrawling:

"The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone."

Holmes stopped and stared longingly at the paper.

I stepped into 221B Baker Street, and a smile was instantly upon my face. God, how I missed this place. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, and I closed my eyes with a sigh. I hadn't been here in so long. It was exactly the same, every time I visited – upstairs, I assumed, there would be the usual papers strew all over, chemical stains on the carpet, and furniture arranged very precisely, just the way Holmes liked it.

I missed Holmes.

I walked through the room, taking one slow step at a time, looking at everything, wishing that all of it was at least half-mine, like it used to be.

But I was just being ridiculous. I really did love Mary. She was sweet, kind, and a most perfect wife.

But she was just… boring.

Life with her was so simple and picturesque, and our large house and many wonderful possessions would make any man jealous, and I felt bad for not wanting exactly what a man my age was supposed to want. Mary did so much for me, and yet, even with everything I had, I was not happy. Not happy enough.

I had tasted the adventure, the action, and the thrill of adrenaline pumping through my veins with every case, every moment spent with Holmes. He was a rare man, and I knew that I was fortunate enough to have been accepted into his quiet, singular life as a close friend and companion, and I knew that I had utterly abandoned my greatest friend and one of the most interesting and exhilarating lives a man could ever hoped to have lived.

But most of all, I knew what it was like. Like to live with Sherlock Holmes.

Or, at least, I used to.

My name was John Watson, and my life seemed to come and go in stages, and the stage of my life that was Sherlock Holmes had slowly but surely come to an end.

And I had never really wanted that to happen, but its occurrence was indeed my entire fault.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up the stairs and towards the sitting-room door with quiet steps, not wanting to disturb Holmes if he was in the middle of some important experiment.

I opened the door to find Holmes sitting at his desk, staring at what appeared to be a bit of writing scrawled upon some old foolscap. What was he doing?

Stepping lightly, I crept up right behind Holmes and peered over his shoulder. He didn't move. Did he even know I was there?

I looked down at the paper on his desk, and, to my great surprise, it appeared he had begun to record a case of his. One that I had not been present for.

A rare thing happened, then – Sherlock Holmes jumped, surprised at my sudden reappearance and close quarters. He must not have heard me enter.

Turning to face me, Holmes blinked several times and observed me reading over his shoulder. He quickly jumbled the papers together and crumpled them into a wad, which he quickly threw to the side. "Watson!" said he, with some surprise. "I did not hear you enter. I was just recording a case which I had undertaken during your absence."

"Yes, I gathered that," I said, taking off my hat and jacket as Holmes snuffed the candle lit on his desk and opened a few of the drapes to light up the old room.

"Some wine, dear Watson? Or a cigarette, perhaps? I have not seen you for some time."

"One of each, please," I said, stretching my arms. "What on earth is this?"

I bent to the floor and observed tiny specks of glass that were strewn all over the carpet. "What happened here, Holmes?"

"Nothing, old boy. Just a bit of an accident," Holmes folded the edge of the carpet over upon itself and ushered me to my chair. "Here is your cigarette, Watson. I will return in a moment with the wine."

Holmes went away to fetch the drink as I walked over to what used to be my old armchair. As soon as I sat, however, I noticed something strange about the seat. It was unusually lumpy.

Furrowing my brow in confusion, I stood and reached underneath the cushion – and, to my surprise, felt something hidden beneath.

Placing my hand on the arm-rest for support, I slowly pulled out what had been concealed beneath my seat.

…It couldn't be.

My old olive-green waistcoat, worn with age, was clutched in my trembling hand. I had thought it utterly lost ages ago. Before I had moved in with Mary, even. Had I really left it here? Or had Holmes…

I suddenly caught the faint sound of his step on the wood floor, not far away, and I quickly threw the waistcoat back underneath the cushion and sat in my chair just as he appeared.

"Look here, Watson," said Holmes, gazing at a rather fine bottle of old wine. "A bit of Marguax, your favorite."

He smiled at me as he set the wine down on the small table between us, and a flutter of bittersweet joy went through me as I understood how happy he was that I was here.

Giving him a small smile back, I stood and walked over to a large cabinet covered in many random objects and messy papers. I bent down and opened a drawer to retrieve the only corkscrew I could remember this particular apartment ever owning.

Holmes stared at me as I strode back over and opened the wine, digging the corkscrew in deep and pulling hard until the cork finally gave.

Straightening myself, wine in one hand, corkscrew in the other, I gave Holmes a strange look. "What on earth are you looking at, old boy?"

"Nothing, nothing," said he, squirming in his chair with a pleased look on his face. "I just find it amusing that you remember exactly where our corkscrew was. It's the only one in this entire residence, you know."

I shook my head. "How could I not? It hasn't changed its storage spot since I moved in here, ages and ages ago."

Holmes grabbed a few wine glasses perched on a nearby chest and poured himself and I a glass as I took a seat.

"So, Watson," said he, his voice tinged with a bit of a mocking tone. "How has your life with Mary been?"

"Holmes."

"Just asking, old boy, just asking," he said with a smirk. "However, Mary aside, I do know a bit of how you have been faring these past few months."

"Oh, really," I said, taking a sip. The wine was excellent. "And what might that be?"

"Well, beside the simple facts that you have gained approximately ten pounds since I saw you last, that you have had trouble sleeping, that your work has been very busy recently, and that you have done quite a bit of gambling that has lost you a fair amount of money, I can deduce nothing else about your current life."

I chuckled. "I will never truly know how you do these things, Holmes," leaning back in my chair. "Do tell me how you came to these conclusions." I knew of my friend's fondness of his abilities, and I felt no shame in allowing him to embellish them.

"As to the extra weight, I observe that the waistcoat you are wearing at present has the bottom-most button undone, suggesting that it has become too tight-fitting for comfort when all the buttons are securely fastened."

"Yes, Holmes. And the sleep?"

"Your eyes have dark circles under them, due to poor sleep, and my point is further defined when I see that the sides of your face have a bit of stubble, when I know you to shave each morning. Thus, you have forgotten this morning, so your sleep must have been quite unfortunate last night."

I had indeed gotten a horrid sleep the previous night, and the thought of shaving this morning had never even entered my mind until Holmes had mentioned it.

"Why, it all so clear when you explain it! And yes, I do admit my sleep has been bad these past few nights."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair and squinted at me. "Whatever for, dearest Watson?"

I rubbed my eyes. "And my busy work, Holmes? The gambling?"

He smiled again and leaned back. "Your work schedule is sticking out of your pocket-" Holmes said, pausing to reach his long thin arm forward and seize it. "-and I could see this bit at the top, which is quite full and busy, as is the rest of your schedule. Dear me, Watson. This is quite overworking. However, I see that today was one of your few days with open hours."

"The gambling?"

"I notice that your hat is not very shiny, as is the same with your coat and shoes. These things are only pleasantries, simple and small trifles, so the cost would not be spent on cleaning them unless there was plenty of money to do so."

"Yes, Holmes. I lost quite a bit a few weeks ago, while Mary was out with a few of her friends."

"Well, then, there you are," said he, lighting his pipe.

A few minutes of silence passed by before I snuffed out my cigarette and took another sip of wine. "But enough about me," said I, "What have you been up to?"

I leaned back in my chair, which was so worn with age and so very comfy, and I couldn't help but wonder.

Had Holmes really kept my waistcoat?

I was back at my own house right in time for dinner, just as Mary had asked, as I thought punctuality was important; however, I had been regretful to leave 221B Baker Street. I wouldn't be able to visit Holmes again in some months, and I had really enjoyed myself. It was always nice to see him.

"There you are, just in time, like always," Mary said with a small cough. "Dinner's almost ready. How was your time with Holmes?"

I gave her a little smile. "Wonderful."

II: Mary Watson

"Care to go for a walk, dear?" I asked pleasantly as Mary entered our plainly furnished sitting-room one fine Sunday afternoon. I had a few hours off of work and thought I would spend some time with my good wife.

She gave me a weak smile. "Why, of course, John. I'd be delighted. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."

I watched her exit and turn down the long hallway to the powder-room, and I took notice of her slow footsteps and pale face. I glanced worriedly in her direction as she disappeared behind the door frame.

Furrowing my brow, I folded up the Sunday morning paper with a satisfying crunch of newsprint and stood to stretch my weary legs. I waited for a few minutes before realizing I had some time before Mary would return.

I took a seat and picked up my half-consumed cup of tea, taking small sips. The tea was cold and bitter, now, but I continued to drink until only the small leaves remained in a soggy clump at the bottom.

I became rather distracted as I sat, staring out of the sitting-room window, down at the roads, watching the men and women of London wander through the muddy streets, heading toward whatever destination they desired at the present moment. I tried half-heartedly to put Holmes' examination method and powers of observation to use as I watched the life below, but with little success.

Eventually it came to my mind that Mary had been gone for some time, and I rose from the small sofa I had been seated on to see how she was getting on.

"Mary?" I called down the hallway, to no response. With hurried steps I quickly arrived at the door to the powder-room and tapped on it several times with my cane. "Mary? Is everything all right?"

I became nervous at the silence that came back to me, and paused for a moment before slowly opening the door with a quick turn of the knob.

To my horror, Mary lay upon the floor, the frilly ends of the mahogany dress she had chosen to wear billowing out around her feet like the tail of some exotic fish. I leaped to her side and tapped her shoulder. "Mary? Mary, dear, are you all right?"

She had no response. I leaned down to her pale lips and could hear a faint whisper of breath fluttering through her lungs.

Scooping my poor wife into my arms, I rushed her down the hall into the bedroom, where it was more private. I lay her upon the bed and quickly loosened her corset, which I had learned to be very constricting upon a woman's torso. Leaning Mary's fragile head against a large comfortable pillow, I listened to her breathing again. It was a little stronger, but still very faint.

I opened the side-table's drawer and retrieved a small bottle of brandy, which I raised to her mouth in the hopes it might return some color to her cheeks. I breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon me.

A small smile settled on her lips. "John," she wheezed. "There you are, sweet John."

"Mary!" I cried, my voice filled with joy. "Oh, Mary, darling, are you all right? You gave me quite a scare!"

A pained look crossed her face, and she swallowed uneasily. "I'm not feeling very well," said she, closing her eyes. "Do you mind if we skip the walk today?"

"Of course, you need rest. Here," said I, gently pulling out the large bed-sheets and laying them on top of her, "I'll get you some water. Don't hesitate to call me if anything should arise. I will be here in a moment."

She smiled. "I love you, John."

"I love you too, Mary."

Two months later.

Sherlock Holmes gave a loud, annoyed sigh. The good Watson hadn't visited him in some time. His last visit had been very enjoyable, even if it had been nearly two months ago. Of course, Holmes had taken up a few interesting cases in the meantime, but they were indeed rather lonely without his Watson.

The detective was slowly adjusting to life without his companion, though he still missed him dearly.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, he would think back to the night of John Watson's departure, but it never brought any emotion to his face. Never to his face.

But, Holmes never failed to smile when he unearthed the only thing left of John Watson from when he still resided in Baker Street, the thing not-so-carefully hidden under the doctor's armchair's seat-cushion.

Now, Holmes had recently completed a case of his, and so, with his extra time, decided to spend a few days relaxing at home. At present, he was sitting upon the floor, staring at his desk, observing the table-legs.

Around noon, Mrs. Hudson came upstairs and brought a bit of lunch for the strange occupant at 221B, to which he hurriedly dismissed and didn't bother touching. He wasn't hungry.

Indeed, the day was turning out to be a rather lazy one, and Holmes conducted a few chemical experiments which brought upon no real entertainment or discovery. Nothing was really gained from his brief studies, excluding the carpet, which gained a few more permanent stains.

And still the day dragged on, boring and very uneventful, with nothing interesting at the theater, no clients, nothing.

10 PM. Holmes was curled up in his chair, clay pipe sticking out of his mouth, the slight haze of smoke slowly filling the room. Holmes' eyelids were drooping, and the small fire that was burning was beginning to fade. He rubbed his eyes and tapped the ashes from his pipe, standing and stretching. He quietly carried out his nightly routine – put out the fire, change into his sleeping-clothes, and read the morning paper, because he had been too lazy to look it over when it had arrived.

Then, time for bed, and tomorrow, he'd wake up to the same empty apartment, the same gray city, and everything just the way he'd left it the day before. And Sherlock Holmes always knew that this dull schedule would never change. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the next day, week, or year. There was no one to change it - not until a client arose, which wasn't very often.

But for once, the great Sherlock Holmes was very, very wrong.

"Mr. Holmes."

Holmes rolled over in his bed and mumbled. The sky outside was still very dark. It must have been the middle of the night. What did the pestering landlady want?

"Mr. Holmes, please get up."

The detective didn't move. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away.

"It's Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. He's-"

Holmes leaped from his bed and was down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson had time to react.

I watched the landlady disappear up the stairs to fetch Holmes, and I sank into the chair I had seated myself into not moments before, my head in my hands, digging my fingernails into my scalp.

Hardly thirty seconds had passed before I heard Holmes' step on the floorboards above, and I looked up to see his pale face peering at me from the landing.

"Watson."

I looked at him, and I could not keep the pain from my face. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words were caught.

I could feel my eyes begin to water, and I looked down at the floor, clearing my throat with an uneasy cough.

"Holmes."

I heard him descend down the stairs and cross the small front room to me, and I looked up to see his face, and he was acting very calm, and I tried to do the same.

I stood to meet Holmes, and he placed his hand very gently on my arm, quietly murmuring, "Let's go upstairs." I knew that he could easily see the heavy look of depression that clouded my face.

We reached the top just as Mrs. Hudson came to the door, and Holmes talked quietly, asking for some hot tea, to which I was very grateful.

I hadn't been here in two months, but every time I visited…

Always the same.

I sat down in my old armchair, and I assumed, by the flatness of the cushion, that the waistcoat wasn't there.

Holmes lit the fire and offered me a cigarette, which I declined. Mrs. Hudson was quick with the tea, and she told us to leave the pot and cups out when we were finished – she would pick them up in the morning.

Indeed, it was quite late, but Holmes didn't seem to be phased by the hour. He poured me a cup of tea, and handed it to me before taking a seat in his armchair, across from me.

We sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea, and I knew that Holmes would not speak first – he was letting me take as much time as I needed to work up the courage to talk.

Eventually, I sat back and rubbed my face. It was indeed very calming, being back at Baker Street, but the situation at hand was so terrible that even in the familiar surroundings I found it hard to truly relax.

I cleared my throat.

"She's very, very sick, Holmes."

I didn't need to elaborate, because I trusted my friend would not need any additional details to perceive who 'she' was.

His somber expression remained unchanged as he said quietly, "I trust you'll be able to care for her better than any other doctor in London. I have faith in you, Watson. She'll be all right."

Holmes, who never had faith in anything, had spoken the very words I both wanted and hated to hear. His words were kind, but they were lies, and I looked at him with grave eyes.

"She's… going to die, Holmes."

I saw him freeze for just a moment, and I gave him a few seconds to absorb this information which I knew would tear his mind apart just as it had mine.

For so long, I had wanted to return. For so long, Holmes had wanted me to return. Return to Baker Street. Return to him.

And now, we were both finally getting what we wanted, but at such a horrible, terrible price that it would utterly destroy me for many months before I could fully recover. And Holmes would have to watch me fall apart, and there was nothing he could do about it.

We sat in silence for many minutes, our tea long cold before Holmes finally spoke.

"I'm… so sorry, old boy. I really am."

He shook his head a little in disbelief, and I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 4 AM.

"I need to get back," I said, taking my jacket and hat. "I won't be back here for a long time, Holmes. But… thank you. For being here. For me."

I cleared my throat for what seemed like the thousandth time that night, and nodded at my friend, who had stood to see me out the door.

I exited Baker Street and walked down the black streets of London, the dog-cart service unavailable at such a ridiculous time of night, and the cobblestones lined with silver from the dim moonlight above guided me back home to my poor Mary.

My poor, poor Mary.

Sherlock Holmes had taken in the words of John Watson, and he was more moved then perhaps ever before.

He was getting his Watson back, but not for months. Possibly years.

And when his Watson did finally return, he would be so broken that it would be a long while before he would truly be himself again.

But Sherlock Holmes would wait. He would wait for the return of Watson, and he would do everything in his power to help Watson heal, no matter how long it took.

And as his companion of many long, singular years departed Baker Street that night, Sherlock Holmes quietly closed the door behind him and whispered, "Good-bye, John."

III: John Watson

Mary had gone peacefully, at least.

She had passed away in her sleep, and I had told her I loved her the night before, so she would always know. I told her every night. Just in case.

Influenza had been a hard thing for both of us, her suffering, and me, as well, watching her deteriorate before my eyes. She was still very beautiful, even in her sick state. Her pale face would always smile at me when I came to check on her.

It was hard. Every morning, I awoke and went to check on Mary, and I didn't know if I would arrive to find her still breathing. And it was so painful, the morning that I finally found her when she wasn't.

God, how I missed my Mary.

Four months later.

John Watson was coming back.

It had been several months since the death of his wife, and he had needed some time alone before he was ready to return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes didn't push him. The detective understood that he was never always needed. Not even close.

But John Watson was finally coming back, and the recovery phase that was Sherlock Holmes would slowly start to begin for the doctor. Although Holmes was not the best at conveying emotions like sympathy or comfort, he knew that it would not be too difficult expressing them towards his very good friend.

Watson was coming later that day, to begin bringing his belongings back into Baker Street. It would be the first time Holmes had seen him since that very late call in the night, when he had learned of Mary's condition and Watson's soon-to-be broken character. The few days after that visit had been very heart-wrenching.

But Holmes did not have time to dwell on the past. It was time to focus on the present, to wait for Watson, to help him pack away and to talk to him. To not mention Mary. To only talk of happy things. To share some wine and a meal after.

Holmes sighed. It was indeed going to be very nice to have his Watson back again. Very, very nice.

I picked up my box of essentials I had brought with me on this first trip back to Baker Street in four months, and I knocked on the door a few times with my cane. I waited for a moment before I heard the clicking of the lock and then the smiling face of the old landlady looking up at me.

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "You're here. It's so good to see you again. I hope you are doing all right. Mr. Holmes has been waiting for you, no doubt. Please come inside."

I muttered a quiet thank-you and began to walk the steps back up to my old rooms. They were my rooms again, I kept telling myself. I had my old bedroom back, my old night-stand, and my old arm-chair.

My old arm-chair.

Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs ahead of me and opened the door for me. "Welcome back, Dr. Watson," she said, smiling.

And there was Holmes, waiting for me.

"Hello, dearest Watson," he said, giving me one of his rare smiles. "It is really very good to see you again. I am very happy to have you back with me. Here," he said, taking the box from my hands, "I'll help you unpack."

He pushed a few things off of a nearby table and set the box down, picking up whatever object was sitting on top.

"A notebook," said he, flipping through what were only blank pages. "For future adventures, dear Watson?"

He beamed again, a smaller – yet equally happy – smile.

"Yes, Holmes, I hope to record our adventures again someday. I quite missed them."

"Ours, indeed," Holmes said. "Speaking of which, I have this for you."

He rushed away to his bedroom, and when he returned, my breath was caught and I could not believe my eyes.

"Here," Holmes said. "You must have left it here. I really am sorry, old boy, I had always forgotten to return it. Rather silly of me, really."

I took my old green waistcoat in my hands and held it fondly for a moment, remembering events past.

I gazed up at my very greatest friend, and finally, for the first time in many months, I smiled.

A/N: And this is where the short but sweet era of John's waistcoat comes to an end. But, don't fret, because it will make some cameo appearences in future stories. :)

Thank you so much for reading. I love you all.

finalproblem